For some reason his hand still stung, even though he had hit his mother a day before. Perhaps it was the stinging of the mind; there were those Quintyn knew who, rather foolishly, claimed that he would soon meet his end - not through physical pain, but through mental pain.
Still, those people were fools, and thus were foolish. They didn’t know what hit them - or rather, they ceased to know, once the great axe dug deep into their skulls. Those that spoke to him like that were now dead bandits, rather: farmers falsely accused to appease Quintyn's yearning, who possessed no wisdom at all. In fact, they didn’t possess anything at all; save their clothes which were most likely stolen by now.
They didn’t even possess a grave.
The incident between he and his mother had died rather quickly. No one dared, or cared, to help his mother, and his father had even suggested that his action was good, and that it was creating a greater bond between he and his father. Quintyn didn’t believe that, though, for his father was never pleased; never.
To his knowledge, his mother was still in Bree-Town. She understood his message, though, and most likely wouldn’t dare to step foot in the Prancing Pony again - Quintyn had come to learn in his childhood that his mother was weak, feeble-minded, and far too joyous.
He had hated that the most. Joy. Happiness. Love. What were they, but false-emotions that sought to destroy you? He learnt that much rapidly, when one of his childhood lovers was beat to death by the Scarred Man. That was how he came into service of Quintyn, later - by which time he had no thought of revenge, or at least no projection of revenge. Quintyn had read the likes of 'A guide to obtaining and keeping power' - books on the topic of obtaining power, and how to hold said-power. He learnt that it was better to forget emotions like love, and even more so to forget the feeling of lust for revenge.
By doing as much, Quintyn grew strong - and now, for all his knowledge, no one can touch him; except his father.
His father was a dilemma. A problem. A question of Quintyn's tactics and strategies. An obstacle; although not for long - for Quintyn had a plan that would allow him to not only be accepted by his father, but also be legitimized without any problems or backlashes concerning his brother Wilham.
He had to remove Wilham. By doing as much, Quintyn would lose a rival, and his father would be forced to acknowledge Quintyn - thus allowing him to become the sole heir to House Windgardens, or rather: House Vesfyre.
There was one problem, though: he didn’t know how to remove Wilham. Assassination was an option, of course, though that would be far too dangerous for Quintyn to do himself. Then there was the option of sending Wilham off to some other House to swear obedience, and force him to forget House Windgardens - only that would never happen... if Wilham did that much, then there'd be no need for assassination, with him being found dead in some ditch.
"Quintyn," the voice of the Scarred Man came - he sounded as bad as he looked, "you're father will be leaving soon."
"Yes, yes: he will." Quintyn said. He didn’t seem to care much about the fact that his father was leaving - he'd be back soon enough, if only my plan could...
"Don’t you want to see him - rather than sit here, staring at me?" The Scarred Man hissed. He was still irritated over his meeting with the strange man - Travian. Though he wasn’t killed -- which was the most irritating part -- he took an arrow to the shoulder. It took him quite a while to get back to Bree-Town, and when he arrived, he was seen to by Ser Brannoric's own doctors. That is: a few men trained to tear arrows out of large men's shoulders, without being thrown back when said-men scream and flail their arms.
Quintyn smirked, staring at the Scarred Man's bare chest for a moment, before looking back at his face, "Oh," he began, "you misunderstand me! We are good friends. Bound both by friendship itself, and by our... work. I wouldn’t leave your side for anything, not yet at least - my father doesn’t want to see me, and I don’t want to see him... what exactly would be the purpose of me seeing him?"
The scarred man choked, before raising his head rapidly to spit. The blood came flying from his mouth - it was frothy and thick with spit. "Gah!" he exclaimed - though no actual words were uttered.
"They told me you were pierced by an arrow. Why are you spitting blood - is it me, perhaps? Come now, I'm not such bad company!"
"Pierced by an arrow, y-yes." The Scarred Man said, before taking a pause. Quintyn did not break the silence. "But," he began again, "I have a feeling that the arrow was covered in... something."
"Poison?" Quintyn asked, almost laughing. Poison wasn’t something that he used, but it was indeed a beautiful sight to see someone swallow a toxic herb, and die a small, painful death. He loved it.
"Maybe." The Scarred Man said, closing his eyes - and most likely falling asleep. He wasn’t dead, clearly.
Quintyn stood up from his chair, and made for the door. "Well," Quintyn said - almost whispering, "goodluck my friend; you'll need it."
Quintyn made his way out of the building - the Scarred Man was relatively close to the door - and took his horse, already prepared, by the reigns. His father's new abode was rather small, in fact: extremely small - so much so that it would be small even for a common man - but that was intended. His father felt that such a place would be perfect, for there is little suspicion for what happens in such a small place.
He pulled himself up onto the horse, which was the same black courser he had owned for two years now, and rode forth across the hills, and onto the road. From there, it was a half-hour ride to Bree-Town in the South.
Once he reached the city, by the Western Gate, he dismounted, and dragged his horse, rather violently, to the haystacks nearby, tying it to the fence. He didn’t truly care if the horse got stolen, for if it was, then he would simply hunt down the thief, or put a bounty on his head - although he did not expect to pay much, due to just how common horse-thieving was.
"Quintyn," a voice came, as a short, brown-haired man with a round face approached him, "the feisty woman is ready for her contract."
"Ah, good," Quintyn said, "might I ask: who are you, Riverside didn’t mention anything about such a... well-fed, prosperous man." He was referring to the man's great weight - which he found both funny, and out-of place. Very few in Bree were able to find food. Fewer yet were so fat.
"Oh, my name is... wait! I see, this is a test. I was told not to reveal myself." the fat man answered, chuckling.
Quintyn stared, stern-faced. "Wrong. You see: it is a test, but not the one you think it is. I don’t need fools. I don’t want fools. I won't look at fools." He began walking towards the Prancing Pony, leaving the fat man standing red-faced and confused.
Entering the inn, he saw him: the man he needed.
"Good." He muttered to himself, staring at the man he needed to speak to - it was Henry Redstem, the very son of Geoffrey Redstem. Geoffrey being a knight, Henry was of nobility - or at least, dying nobility.
Henry was exactly as described; brutish, rough, not short yet not tall, muscular, and foolish. From simply looking at him, Quintyn knew he was a fool. If still a useful fool.
One day, Henry would bring Quintyn to power, surely; but for that day to come, he had to set in motion the great game that was blackmail. Quintyn had with him a parchment of paper - a bounty. Everything would be his by simply signing the bounty, but Quintyn wanted to abuse something more - something better. Henry was, by all accounts, unable to read well.
"Gracious me! Is that Redstem?" Quintyn shouted, rushing up to Henry. He was chuckling and smiling - and while he was half-faking, he was indeed chuckling inside.
"Huh?" Henry asked, not quite sure about what just happened, "Who are you?"
"I'm Robert. Now, I know you've never heard my name, but indeed: I've heard yours, and your father's. You're quite famous, you know." Quintyn replied, "You are the son of the Great Redstem, are you not?"
Henry paused for a moment, taking a sip of ale, "Yes."
"I'm here to offer you my service!" Quintyn cheered heartily, enthusiastically, and above all: slyly.
"Your service?" Henry asked, "What service could you offer me?"
"I wish to become your squire! Why, I've heard of the name 'Redstem' -- as I have said -- and it is a great one." Quintyn said, retrieving a parchment of paper from his right coat-pocket. He thought it was rather odd that he chose to do this in the Prancing Pony, an inn, but Henry didn't need to know that -- and in fact, he didn't know that.
Henry eyed the paper, though he wasn't quite sure as to what the small, black writing said on it. He wasn't the best of readers, as Quintyn knew well: Quintyn offered to read it, telling Henry that he would keep his 'secret'.
He lied. Of course.
All Henry knew, now, was that Quintyn planned to become his squire, and after four years of service, he would be knighted (something that was not in Henry's power, one should note). Of course, this was all falsehood, and when Quintyn's tone changed from a foolhardy, joyous young man's, to a sadist's, Henry immediately grew furious.
Though, now, Henry was unable to harm Quintyn - not openly, at least. Quintyn gave him threats, also, that both he and his father would suffer, should he die.
The rest of the day, and night, was quite interesting, and Quintyn met with 'Riverside', to give his thanks for the new pet.
Quintyn loved pets.
